To the Edge of the World

by Michele Torrey

  Rodrigo gave me ten small bells to trade. Going into the village, I bought a shell necklace from a sag-breasted old woman who had but two blackened teeth in her mouth. She followed me around then, laughing behind her hand, pinching my backside if I turned away. I bought other things, too—pineapples, sweet potatoes, and a basket to store them in—meanwhile always followed by the old woman. Later, she sat staring at me, giggling as if I were the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen, as I spent the rest of the day drawing in my sketchbook. I sketched her as well. She would make a fine addition to my collection.

  When I returned to the Trinidad and Rodrigo saw my purchases, he laughed and called me a weakling, asking why I did not buy myself a woman. I shoved him to the deck. “I am not a weakling!” I yelled. We fought until his eye was blackened and my ribs bruised, until we both lay on the deck panting.

  The natives lived together in long houses called boii, each housing more than one hundred people. The next day, the old woman yanked me inside and proudly showed me their fire pit while tugging me toward her bed, a netting stretching from one log pole to another. I heard soft giggling and noticed a group of young women watching me. I flushed to the roots of my hair. Wrenching my wrist from her grasp, I backed out of the boii, smiling and bowing like an idiot while fending off her pinching, groping hands. Giggles erupted into laughter. Horrified, I fled back to the ship and said nothing to anyone, especially not Rodrigo.

  On the twentieth day of December, the master of the Victoria was executed. All ships’ companies assembled. The master stood tall. He looked at no one, said nothing, as Espinosa removed his shackles.

  Once, when I was very young, I had seen a public garroting. I had forgotten the horror. The master was led to a post in the ground. To the post was attached a metal collar, which Espinosa affixed around the condemned man’s neck. Espinosa turned screws on the garrote and the collar slowly tightened.

  The master gazed above our heads, toward the heavens. His eyes began to bulge. His tongue protruded, turning blue. I stood there, admiring his courage.

  It was over. The master was dead.

  The pimply-faced boy was not to be executed. He had appealed the sentence of death, saying the master had forced him. I despised him for his weakness.

  One night, in a secluded clearing between palm trees, I played my guitar around a fire with Rodrigo and some other cabin boys. Because there was much joking and laughing between us, it was some time before we realized we were being watched. When we turned to investigate, the bushes rustled and we heard a chorus of giggles. Immediately my friends sprang to their feet and dashed into the bushes. There followed a great commotion of giggling. Of chases that crashed through the underbrush. Of shrieks and laughter. Then silence.

  I sat alone before the fire. Why, I asked myself, why do I not follow? I knew the answer. I was afraid. Never before had I been with a woman. I grew angry and said to my feet, Take me into the bushes. Find a native woman.

  But my feet would not move.

  Then I heard a noise, quiet as a whisper of wind in the sails. A young woman, younger than I, slipped into the circle of light and sat upon a rock. Her brown eyes stared at me shyly. I stared back. Like the other natives, her skin was bronze-colored. Intricate designs swirled over her body, designs painted beneath her skin. She was tiny, slender. Her long black hair shimmered in the firelight.

  She began to talk, but I could not understand. Then she laughed, a soft laugh like the tinkle of water poured from a jug. The next thing I knew, she was sitting beside me and her hands were upon my face—stroking my cheeks, touching my lips. I caressed her smooth cheeks with trembling fingers. Her lower lip was pierced with three holes threaded with round pebbles. I traced the holes, wondering if it hurt. Then she laughed and I laughed with her.

  Her name, I learned, was Aysó.

  Sitting there that evening, she taught me a few words of her language, and I taught her to say boy and song and girl and love. I played my guitar and sang to her. I tried to teach her to play the guitar, my fingers clasped over hers. We laughed at her fumbling attempts. I showed her my sketchbook and then drew a picture of her. After she saw my drawing, she looked at me in amazement. I read her some of my mother’s poems while she caressed the paper, nodding and smiling.

  It was late before I left, the other cabin boys long gone. I dreamed of her that night, dreams soft as her skin and shining as her eyes.

  The next day I rushed back to the same spot. My heart leaped when I saw she had returned. She smiled. “I’m back,” I said happily, knowing she could not understand. We played the guitar and sang and drew pictures in the dirt, each of us talking, wondering if the other could understand. “Ship,” I said, tracing the Trinidad in the sand. “Ship,” she replied.

  It was late afternoon when, after eating some fruit together, she took my hand and began to lead me through the jungle. “Aysó? Where are you going? Where are you taking me?” A wave of giddy happiness rushed over me and I thought, It does not matter. I would follow you anywhere.

  After a while I realized we walked a trail. A tiny thread of earth snaked up the side of a mountain. We walked a long time, our hands entwined, no longer talking. We pushed gigantic leaves aside and stepped over branches and fallen logs. Frogs chorused and butterflies danced just out of reach. We crossed creeks, leaping from stone to stone, giggling when I slipped in the mud.

  Suddenly there it was. A waterfall. It tumbled from a rock cliff and cascaded into a pool of water below. Water misted the air in a rainbow. Aysó slipped into the pool and then swam under the waterfall, beckoning me to follow.

  “I cannot swim,” I said, hungering to follow her.

  When she motioned again, I could no longer resist. I turned away from her to undress, knowing it was ridiculous. Aysó never showed embarrassment over her nakedness. But I had never been naked in front of a woman, even if it was just for a swim. Had Rodrigo ever felt this shy?

  Covering myself with my hands, I crept over the rocks and waded into the pool, going deep as quickly as I could, hoping my face was not as red as it felt. To my relief, the water was only chest-deep. Water rained on my head, streaming down my face, into my eyes and mouth. I spit out water, laughing, and when Aysó laughed, too, I pulled her toward me. “Waterfall,” I said, pointing up.

  Then, to my surprise, she reached up and pressed her lips to mine. Her lips, so soft. She tasted like rainbows of mist. My body melted into her kiss. My heart thundered. But when I tried to wrap my arms around her, she slipped away, under the water. “Aysó, come back!” My voice echoed through the jungle and up the cliff. Birds scattered from nearby treetops.

  Now she was in the middle of the pool, laughing, shaking water from her long black hair. You are so beautiful, I thought. Just as I neared her, she dove, gliding past me under the water. I tried to catch her, but she slipped away, nimble as a dolphin.

  It became a game. Each of us laughing, breathless, joy bubbling within me like fresh rain. Whenever she surfaced, I lunged after her, hoping to catch her, to kiss her. On and on we played for what seemed hours, until Aysó pointed to the sinking sun.

  I sighed.

  It was time to return.

  Later, as we arrived at where I’d left my guitar and things, a new and surprising warmth overwhelmed me. It is love, I realized. My heart bursts with love. “You are so beautiful, Aysó. You make me so happy. I—I love you.” I took her hands in mine, my heart racing, hoping she understood.

  Aysó brushed her lips across my cheek. “Waterfall,” she whispered in my ear. Then she was gone.

  IX

  December 22-27, 1519

  “I love her,” I told Rodrigo that night as we lay on our bedding aboard ship.

  “It is what we all think with the first one. Do not worry. It will pass.”

  “But I am serious. I truly love her.”

  “I believe you. You truly love her until you meet the next pretty native.”

  “Pah! Why did I even think you would unde
rstand?”

  “Believe me, Mateo, I do understand. It is you who are brainless.”

  “If you understood, you would not speak to me so. If you understood, you would agree that I am really in love.”

  “Truly, Mateo, sometimes I think you are the stupidest person alive. What good is love on a voyage like this? You will only have to leave her.”

  “You are a liar, Rodrigo, and I will never talk to you again.”

  “God be praised.”

  I rolled over, pulling the blanket over my head, hating Rodrigo for always speaking the truth.

  We sat beneath the full white moon, the fire blazing beside us. I had played my guitar and sang so much, I despised hearing myself. But Aysó, dearest Aysó, whenever I stopped, she motioned for me to play again. So I played again. How could I say no?

  She sat beside the fire on a bed of leaves, cross-legged, weaving a chain of flowers. Already she had woven one chain into a circlet, which she had placed atop her head. “Mateo,” she whispered, smiling to herself, her brown eyes peeping shyly from beneath the delicate crown. “Mateo.”

  I sang her a love song. Already I had sung it, what? Eight times? Nine? I had composed it myself and thought it very good.

  Eyes like water,

  Lips like wine,

  I drink your love,

  Sweet love divine. . . .

  Then her hand clasped over mine, stopping my strumming. “Mateo,” she whispered again. My breath caught in my throat as she quietly, slowly, placed the circlet upon my head. I could smell her sweet warm breath. Then she gazed at me, and I swore I saw love in her eyes.

  But when I reached out to caress her, she gently took my hand and placed it on the strings of my guitar. She pointed at my guitar and at me. “You want me to play? Again?” In answer, she rubbed my hand across the strings. I smiled at the sound it made.

  And so I played and sang while she made circlet after circlet, draping them on her, on me, on my guitar. I grew weary, the scent of so many flowers intoxicating. I imagined myself as a bee, drunk on nectar. The night became a dream, hazy, as if I watched myself from far away as I sang and played and sang and played, dizzy with love. Finally, my eyelids drooped. I stopped playing, laying aside my guitar, expecting Aysó to protest. But she was not even listening.

  Instead, she lay curled beside the now smoldering embers, asleep on her bed of leaves, surrounded by flowers. Embers snapped and the orange of firelight flickered across her face, etching her in softness. She looked like a painting, motionless on a canvas. I watched her for a long time, unwilling to end this moment. Then, quietly, I removed my dagger, took off my shoes, and lay down beside her, wrapping my arm around her waist, imagining us together forever.

  She moved closer to me as the sweet scent of crushed flowers twined through my senses. Sleep pressed upon me. The last thing I remember was the whisper of her name on my lips, painted across my heart. Aysó . . .

  There was a distant shouting in the jungle that night, but I pulled Aysó closer and heard her sigh before I fell back to sleep.

  Waterfalls. Dreams of flowers. Lips like wine. Shy eyes beneath a crown of petals. . . . I rolled over, dimly aware that the jungle darkness receded, that the fire was cold. Birds chorused overhead. Then a squawking, louder, louder . . . a rustling. The birds flew away.

  Suddenly, I was yanked to my feet by my hair. My scalp screamed with pain. My blood surged with shock. Aysó shrieked and clung to me before she was torn away. My God, what is happening?

  Then a marine shoved his face into mine, his features vague and distorted in the early morning light.

  My heart leaped into my throat. Sleep vanished in an instant. I saw the deep shadows of pockmarks and knew I was in trouble again.

  “You, Dog-Boy, are in violation of a direct command from the captain-general!” Spittle showered my face, my eyes.

  “Command? But—but—I—”

  “We have been searching for you through the night! I have lost sleep because of you, Dog-Boy. Shore leave is hereby canceled. Report to the ships immediately to prepare for departure. We leave in a few days.”

  Another marine stood beside Pock-Face. He was black-haired, black-eyed, and hook-nosed, reminding me of a crow. I did not like the glint in his eyes as his gaze swept over Aysó. A chill ran through me.

  “I—I—must gather my things,” I said quickly, wanting to end this, to lead them away from Aysó, back to the waiting ships.

  Pock-Face shoved me toward my shoes. “Hurry. The captain-general is waiting. You sore try his patience.”

  I sat to pull on my shoes, meanwhile watching the other marine out of the corner of my eye. From the moment they had found me, the crow-faced marine had not stopped staring at Aysó. Aysó seemed to sense his gaze, for she hung back now, her eyes saucers of fright, confused. Beside me on the ground, partially concealed with leaves, lay my dagger. Making no sudden moves, I grasped the hilt, shielding the blade under my arm. “I’m ready. Let us go.” I stood and casually fetched my guitar, turning from Aysó as if she were only a thing to be forgotten, my heart crashing against my ribs for fear.

  Then it happened. What I had been dreading.

  “Take him back to the ship, Segrado,” said Crow-Face. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Pock-Face, or Segrado, as he was called, loosened his grip from my arm, and I sensed his hesitation. That was my moment.

  I dropped my guitar, whirled, dagger in hand, and attacked Crow-Face. “Run, Aysó!” I screamed as my dagger bit flesh.

  The marine cursed. Surprise splashed across his face.

  “Run, Aysó!” With one look at me, panicked and terrified, Aysó turned and disappeared into the jungle. I heard nothing of her escape. I knew only that she was gone.

  An arm locked about my neck from behind. “Drop the dagger, Dog-Boy!”

  When I did not, the arm tightened. A veil of blackness began to fall over my eyes, and the dagger slipped from my hand. Run, Aysó, I thought. Keep running and don’t stop.

  A fist slammed into my gut.

  Again, and again . . .

  I stood facing Espinosa.

  His ice-blue eyes studied me.

  Just a few paces away, Magallanes gazed out the stern windows, his hands clasped behind his back. I saw the tightness of his jaw, heard the deepness of his breath.

  Motionless and suffocating, the captain-general’s cabin was as feverish as Spain on a windless summer’s day. Sweat soaked my shirt, clinging to my bruises, my aching ribs. My bloodstained hands were shackled behind me, and on each side of me stood the two marines. My accusers.

  Failure to return to the ship when ordered, they said. Resisting arrest. Attacking a marine with a deadly weapon. A flesh wound only, but one blade’s width to the left, and Minchaca would be dead. I was a boy gone wild, they said, uncontrollable.

  When the accusations dwindled under the punishing silence, Magallanes turned. His dark eyes gazed at me, his brow furrowed. And although his eyelids drooped and the flesh beneath his eyes sagged, his stare pierced me like an arrow. For you, Aysó, I thought, my heart fluttering even now with the memory of her.

  Under their scrutiny—Espinosa’s and Magallanes’s—I lowered my head. Shame covered me like a heated shadow, even though I had done nothing for which to be ashamed.

  “Well?” asked Magallanes finally, waiting for me to answer.

  I said nothing. Fearing to speak, fearing not to speak. From outside I heard the cry of a parrot. A dog barking. Laughter.

  Then Espinosa said, “Leave us.”

  I looked up, surprised. Leave us?

  “Segrado, Minchaca, both of you, leave us. Wait outside the door. The captain-general and I wish to speak to the boy alone.”

  I sensed their reluctance. But, like well-trained soldiers, they obeyed the master-at-arms, latching the door behind them.

  Now I was alone with Magallanes and Espinosa. And even though I again looked at nothing but the boards in the floor, sanded and polished, I knew they
regarded me. That they wondered what to do with me. That for the second time I faced the captain-general accused of a crime. That for the second time I shamed him. That he still believed me a liar and a spy. Perhaps Espinosa was regretting the day he’d stopped at the inn. That he’d shared his rabbit stew with me. . . .

  “Well?” Magallanes asked again.

  I sighed, miserable. “I had no choice,” I finally mumbled.

  “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Every man has a choice, Mateo.”

  “Not me.”

  “I see. Tell me what happened.”

  “That marine, Minchaca. He was going to hurt Aysó.”

  “Aysó? Who is Aysó?” asked Espinosa.

  “She is a girl. A woman, I mean.” I felt myself flush.

  “This Aysó, you were with her?” asked Magallanes.

  “Aye, Captain-General.”

  “I see. And Minchaca?”

  “The two of them came to take me back to the ship. But Minchaca wanted to stay behind. I knew he was going to hurt her.” Now I looked at both of them. “I saw it in his eyes. Please believe me.”

  “Did he touch her?” asked Magallanes.

  “No, but he was going to.”

  “Did he harm her in any way?”

  Again I lowered my head, shaking it. It is useless, I realized. They will never believe me. For I am a liar and a spy and they no longer trust me.

  “So you attacked him,” asked Magallanes, “although he did not lay a hand on her?”

  “Upon my word, Captain-General, he was going to. I told you, I saw it in his eyes.”

  Magallanes glanced at Espinosa, then sighed heavily. “You leave us no choice, Mateo.”

  “Aye.”

  He limped to the door and opened it slowly. Minchaca and Segrado stood at attention, waiting. “He is to have a dozen lashes, plus five days in the stocks. Minimum rations.” Then he stepped aside as Minchaca and Segrado entered the cabin to take me away.